Freaky about mine, at any rate. The boss, the head man, Mr. Simon Beresford himself, the guy who kept the corporate gears oiled and meshing; what a catch for a kid like me! I was new there, too, a lowly trainee in the Consolidated organization. When it happened – a chance brush-by in the cafeteria corridor – I didn't even know who he was. An executive with a roving eye – married, no doubt – but that couldn't dampen my girlish enthusiasm. I liked his looks. A trifle ancient for me, somewhere in his forties probably, but impressive nonetheless, ruggedly handsome, a manly male under that Ivy League veneer. Better yet, he seemed to like mine – and I had never been the type of charmer who could stop traffic with a rucked-up skirt and a dazzling toothpaste smile. Was the guy really interested in drab little me?

So it appeared. Fascinated by my "kissable" lips and interested to the point of romance. Which would mean just a sneaky affair, I figured – or perhaps only an out-of-town motel weekend – the standard game-plan for a married man. I expected no more than that. And I was ready to give my all, my comparatively inexperienced all, for such a cause. Laid by the boss, imagine! Wouldn't that be a boost up the ladder to success? Besides, after dallying with some of the lower-caste office dullards, I was pretty eager to spread my wings and soar a little. Wasn't that why I had come to the big city in the first place, to try the things I'd never tried before? It would be an experience to savor, something to look back upon in later years. Like a night with a matinee idol. Or a rock star. Or a hit man for the Mafia. Well, something like that. Only this guy, my guy – Simon Beresford, the thick-lips freak – was more important than such lesser mortals. Sexier, too, from what I gathered. Oh yes, I was eager…